


Uphill

by Regndoft



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Character in distress, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:11:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regndoft/pseuds/Regndoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master has found himself in something of a predicament. The Doctor has found the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uphill

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a fic meme on Tumblr that I decided to combine with a slot on the trope bingo ("character in distress"). The prompt was Three/Delgado - fairy tale. 
> 
> Loosely based on [The Princess on the Glass Hill.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Princess_on_the_Glass_Hill)

“Of course,” the Master said wearily, “you _are_ a youngest son, insomuch as you can be said to be anyone’s son at all.”

The Doctor tried to shrug before he remembered that he was wearing armour and settled for a somewhat sheepish expression instead. “They assumed since I was willing to try my luck, I had to be. An awfully superstitious lot, wouldn’t you say?”

“A people with a rigid, inflexible mindset, bound by archaic traditions and rites despite their obvious technological prowess,” the Master said dryly. “It’s almost like being back home.”

Outside, lavender clouds drifted idly by. If he was to look down through the floor, the Doctor fancied he’d be able to see the colour of the blue hills even through the hundreds of layers of crystal that made up the floating fortress. Fancifully named the Glass Mountain, it was not actually made of glass and only vaguely resembled a mountain, but it could as well have been both; even if one managed to reach the foot of it (a more difficult task than one might think, seeing as it floated several feet above the ground) the sides were as flat and smooth as ice.

“You took your time,” the Master said, sitting stiffly on the crystal dais, dark robes spilling over the floor like ink—no doubt a generous gift from the locals, together with whatever food and drink and other necessities that must’ve kept him alive for this long. Pillows, the Doctor noted, did not seem to have been considered a priority, and so the Master’s regal pose might be more of an unfortunate side effect rather than an affectation, but that didn’t make his remark any less irritating. 

“If you didn’t want to spend so much time in solitary contemplation, perhaps you should have thought twice before deciding to steal data cores from an advanced yet unreasonably prosaic civilisation.”

“I admit I hadn’t considered that the mountain could have had a security system,” the Master said and smiled wryly. “Especially since they’re willing to hand over their knowledge to whoever happens to earn it.”

“Only because no one would ever seriously try to climb all the way to the top,” the Doctor tutted. “It’s a rite of passage to try, nothing more. And they’d definitely not try to _cheat_ , and thereby set off the security system.”

“And trapping them inside once they reached the chamber, yes,” the Master finished for him, his expression having turned noticably sourer. “I had noticed.”

The Doctor took a couple of steps forward, the sound of the traditional armour echoing between the walls. Despite the fact that his armour was as light as a feather, he found himself crossing the floor somewhat warily.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, old chap” he replied in a tone that suggested that the Master had gained nothing less than what he deserved, and that the Doctor was finding this eminently amusing. “Where are they then, the data cores? I’d hate to think all your misfortune has been in vain.”

The Master sighed irritably, all pretence at nonchalance gone, as he lifted aside the long sleeve of his robe. Next to him, fitted snugly into three indentations, were what looked like common garden apples – if apples usually came fitted with a web of metal wires, running round and across the orbs in intricate patterns, giving them a golden sheen.

“I’ll take those, thank you,” the Doctor said, opening the small sack he’d brought with him and starting to lift the apples from their resting place, “out of courtesy, you see. It wouldn’t do to go to all that effort without paying heed to the local customs.”

“Are you quite finished?” he snapped. 

“Almost,” the Doctor said, before leaning down and pressing his lips against the Master’s.

The Master rolled his eyes, but took the Doctor’s arm when it was offered.


End file.
